Breton Honey
by cuthalion
Summary: The war against Voldemort is over, the wedding of Hermione and Ron is close at hand... and suddenly the brightest witch of her generation is struggling with panic attacks and an embarrassing lack of practical knowledge...


**Breton Honey  
**by _Cúthalion_

"This," said Hermione Granger, clearly audible over the general tohuwabohu, "is absolutely _impossible." _

Eight pairs of eyes turned in her direction, and the clamorous babel of voices was replaced by a sudden silence. Not a complete silence, though... a sickeningly sweet soprano came from the radio on the shelf, trilling: _"Let me stiiir in your cauldrooon, let meee waaaltz with your waaaand..."_

Hermione saw how Fleur opened her mouth, doubtlessly to add yet another colorful remark about her hearty disgust towards Celestina Warbeck in general and this song in particular, but Bill's hand found hers, and she pressed her lips closed. Arthur quietly rose from his chair and switched the apparatus off.

"I'm really sorry, Molly," Hermione said, turning to her future mother-in-law. "I know you thought that this might be a good idea, but spending my honeymoon in George's apartment over _Weasley's Wizard Wheezes_ is something I simply can't imagine."

Before Molly could answer, Fleur spoke up. "Zees ees why we offered you Shell Cottage," she said, somewhat triumphantly. "Wee thought you wouldn't weesh George to come up from zee shop to give his leetle brother an earfuul about..."

She broke off, her beautiful face blushing while she cast a side glance at George. His mouth quirked to a lopsided grin, and for a short, shocking moment Hermione all but felt Fred - the lost twin - looming over his shoulder like a translucent shadow.

"Yes?" The grin deepened. "An earful about... ah... _what_ to plug _where?"_

_"GEORGE!"_ That was his mother, face nearly as red as her son's mop of hair. The situation didn't really improve when Harry - who sat opposite of Molly and beside his wife - snorted into his tea cup and Ginny hastily hid a giggle behind her napkin. Fleur murmured something decidedly Gallic under her breath; something that sounded for Hermione suspiciously like _"lisser sa femme". _Bill gave a bark of laughter that turned into a fake coughing fit when Molly Weasley's eyes shot fire bolts in his direction.

Hermione thanked the Powers above for several things: that her ears always blushed first, that no one was able to spy them under her thick mane, and that Molly didn't speak French nearly as fluently as she did. But most of all she blessed her fate that Ron wasn't there. She gave Molly a reassuring smile and turned to Fleur.

"Thank you for your kind and generous offer," she said. "But you two deserve a Christmas that really turns out to be _entre-vous_ for a change."

A pretty dimple appeared on Fleur's cheek, and the young women exchanged a look of deep understanding. Since that winter when Ron had left their desperate seeking mission for the Horcruxes and licked his wounds in Shell Cottage during the Holidays, Bill and his wife had faithfully spent each of the next three Christmases in the Burrow. It was no secret that Fleur longed for a private celebration under her own decorated tree – finally and for once without the whole Weasley rabble. Long gone were the times when Hermione thought that Bill's wife was an arrogant pain in the neck; after that horrible day of torment at Malfoy Manor it had been Fleur Weasley who had patiently taken care of Hermione. Fleur had been the one to coax her out of the nightmares those first few nights, and sat with her when she was unable to sleep.

"I have rented a house in France," Hermione continued, meeting Molly's surprised stare with quiet determination.

"In _France?"_ Judging by Molly's flabbergasted tone, said house might as well have been located somewhere in Mongolia. "And how do you pay... I mean..." She closed her mouth with a snap; money was a delicate matter in the Burrow, after too many years with too less of it in the household budget.

"Wheere een France?" Fleur asked. She was obviously very pleased about Hermione's choice for her honeymoon.

"In Brittany," Hermione said, "in St. Guenolé. It is called Cottage Genêt. My parents took me there for the holidays when I was a child. And they won't pay the rent this time, even though they have offered to do so. I'll pay it myself; this is my wedding gift for... er... for Ron."

She nearly said "my husband", but to her dismay, the two simple words refused to come out. _That was downright silly. They would be married next week, for heaven's sake!_

Suddenly she had enough – enough of the Weasley clan, of those too-many probing eyes, of the preparations for the feast she had been looking forward to for over half a year now. She decided on an orderly retreat, as long as she was still able to pull herself together. And her composure was growing dangerously thin.

She met Harry's gaze across the table, sending out a silent cry for help. He gave his wife a fast, nearly undetectable nudge, and Ginny cleared her throat.

"I've nearly finished the wedding dress," she remarked casually. "One more fitting would probably do; last time the sleeves were a tad too long, and I'd like to know whether or not I've fixed the problem."

"Go ahead," Hermione said, suppressing an audible sigh of relief. "I'll be with you in a moment."

She pushed back her chair and got up, following Ginny out of the room. The door closed behind them, and she felt her shoulders slump, slightly comforted by Ginny's sympathetic grin.

"Do you really want to try the dress, or would you prefer to run away screaming before it's too late?" Ginny's grin widened. "I was raised in this anthill, and I must warn you: it doesn't get any easier with the years."

"I'm dreadfully sorry," Hermione replied; her deeply rooted sense of responsibility told her that she was behaving like a shying horse in front of some unknown obstacle. "Give me ten minutes; I need some fresh air."

"Take all the time you want," Ginny said, surprisingly gentle. "I won't go anywhere, at least not tonight." With a swish of her copper-golden ponytail she vanished in the dark hallway, and Hermione could hear her quick footsteps on the stairs.

She turned away and opened the front door. The ice cold breeze made the skin of her face tingle and momentarily took her breath away. She remembered her winter boots on the low drying shelf, slipped them over the thick socks she was wearing and reached for the fur-rimmed cloak she had left on the coat rack this morning. It had been an (insanely expensive) Christmas present from Harry last year, but Ron hadn't raised any objections; he had laughed instead, making a slightly rude joke about the taste of the Boy Who Lived.

Ron earned a decent payment as an Auror for the Ministry for nearly one year now - as did she - but Hermione knew that he would have been unable to purchase such an extravagant gift for her. That he had taken Harry's generosity so good-naturedly was promising. He had come a long way from the time when his deep friendship for Harry had fought a constant battle against the nagging impression that he was barely more than the red-headed, clumsy starveling in the shadow of Potter's glory.

The soles of her boots slowly crunched through the snow filling the yard. A few footprints shone dark against the clean, white surface where Molly and Arthur had walked to the stable today, to feed the hens and geese; a sleepy _"Honk...?"_ came from behind the low door when Hermione passed the small, wooden building. The sun had vanished behind the horizon about half an hour ago, leaving a rosy glow over the top of Stoatshead Hill. The rest of the sky was darkening rapidly, and the first stars shone like tiny sparks of fire over her head.

The silence had a calming effect on her heart and soul, and slowly her milling thoughts came to rest. _Her husband. Ron would be her husband._ Out here, in the cold crystal clarity of this winter evening, the words lost their scariness, and suddenly Hermione found that she was smiling.

She had spent years pestering Ron and Harry with advice, warnings and constant reproach, and still their friendship had grown to an intensity and durability strong enough to last through the turmoil of the Dark Lord's second rise. It was a bond that had easily outlived the end of their childhood; Harry's marriage hadn't been a great problem either, for Ginny fit into their magical circle without effort. Three months after Voldemort's fall Harry had become the youngest Auror ever at the Ministry, and Ron moved into the apartment over _Weasley's Wizard Wheezes,_ to assist George with running the shop.

Ron enjoyed the work there, and his presence certainly meant some comfort for the remaining twin, but his attempt to replace his fallen brother – however unconscious – was a lost cause from the very beginning. She and Harry had watched his struggle with sympathy, and for once Hermione had decided to be silent, trusting that Ron would seek a way out of the situation on his own. He actually did. He remembered his schoolboy dreams, took his heart in both hands and secretly applied for a position as an Auror in September of 1999. He didn't ask Harry to pull any strings for him, but patiently and stubbornly worked his way through the difficult admission procedure.

At the end it was Ron's _own_ battle experience and his _own_ hard work which tipped the scales, not any intercession by the Boy Who Lived, and that worked wonders on his self-esteem. Shortly before Christmas 1999, he surprised Harry with the proud announcement that they would soon work in the same Ministry department. And at the beginning of April 2000, he had taken his first three monthly salaries, bought a golden ring with a tiny brilliant and asked Hermione to marry him –

Now she stood under the stars, her cheeks slowly freezing, and remembered vividly the unique look on his face after he had asked the crucial question – a good amount of fear, great excitement and even greater love, running under all his nervous confusion like a deep, clear stream.

The insecurity belonged to the Ron of former years; to the Ron who had masked his jealousy of Harry Potter's fame with biting humor... the Ron who had attacked Draco Malfoy with a damaged wand because he'd called Hermione a _Mudblood_, and who had paid for his reckless heroism by spitting snails for hours... the Ron who wouldn't believe that Harry didn't want to use the Goblet of Fire to multiply his own fame.

The Ron who asked her to be his wife had been born on a clearing in the woods where he dragged the Boy Who Lived out of a freezing pond. There he had listened to Voldemort's lies and faced his worst fears, dancing before his eyes like _Fiendfyre_, and he had still managed to cut the Gordian knot with Gryffindor's sword by destroying the cursed locket.

Nearly two years after the Second Battle – and long after Hermione had forgotten her enormous rage that he had fled temporarily from their mission – she and Ron had spent a rare evening without Harry. He'd sat in front of the fireplace, face turned away, the reflection of the flames the only light on his pale, freckled skin, and told her about that moment... certainly not everything, but enough to confirm that the choice her heart had already made years ago was the right one.

She inhaled deeply, following the white cloud of breath with her eyes.

"I love him," she said. Her voice was surprisingly loud, and she winced. She noticed that her toes were getting cold, despite the warm socks and winter boots. She would have to go inside soon."I love him," she repeated, just because she liked the sound of it.

"Good to hear,"someone said into her hair, and two long arms came from behind, pulling her into a tight embrace. "If you didn't love me, we'd be in a lot of trouble next week."

"Ron!" Hermione spun around, and his first kiss landed on her nose. The second attempt was more successful; she tasted pumpkin juice, a hint of wood smoke and something spicy that was decidedly him. Heat spread through her body and made her fingertips tingle, and a sweet, surging ache curled in her stomach. She drew back, looking up at him. His eyes gleamed in the darkness.

"Did you just come back?" she asked. "Have you been in the house already? Molly saved half an apple pie for you."

"Great!" Ron laughed. "There's nothing like home, isn't it?" He paused, frowning. "What are you doing out here, by the way? It's _freezing_ – and you look as if you were freezing, too."

"I only needed a bit of space," she said airily, but the times when he didn't bother with looking under the surface were long over. He sighed and pulled her closer, his breath warm on her face. "Got a Weasley overdose, huh?"

She shook her head without speaking; she was simply glad that he was there. "It was only a little one. And my favorite Weasley wasn't in the room!"

Suddenly she remembered the little house in St. Guenolé, the thick, grey walls, the small living room with the beautifully carved Breton furniture and the walled garden with the spectacular view over the wide expanse of the sea. Okay... the garden would be bare at this time of the year, and the ocean winds would rattle the shutters and howl in the chimney... but they could light a fire, they could share their meals, and they could be together. _Married... and alone._

"I know it's a bit early," she said, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth, "but I'd like to tell you about my wedding present right now."

vvvvv

"This," said Hermione Weasley, "is utterly _embarrassing." _

The main reason for her discomfort was the huge, wet stain on the skirt of her wedding dress. It covered the biggest part of her rear section and was the result of her own negligence. George's mug of butterbeer had keeled over when he whirled his mother around in a very fast waltz, and Hermione – whose feet ached terribly after twenty dances in a row – didn't see the puddle when she sought out a dim corner and sat down. She'd had every intention of slipping out of her pumps and wiggling her toes, but instead she gave a surprised shriek and shot up again. The mug had rolled over the edge of the bench and exploded on the floor into what felt like hundreds of shards, and the latest Weasley wedding ended with half a dozen friends and relatives, plucking the last pieces of broken glass out of her skirt and poking at each other with their wands while simultaneously trying to cast a drying spell over her hind quarters.

This was Ron's greatest moment. He stepped forward, caught his young wife around the waist and raised his hand, jolting the chaos to a sudden halt.

"You know what?" he said into the silence. "There's a nice little house in France, waiting for us. I'm sure that will be the best place to fix the problem with the dress."

"Of course... by getting rid of the whole thing," Charlie murmured under his breath, followed by a hearty slap of his mother's fingers against his arm.

To Hermione's amazement Ron – who had always been everything else but elegant – managed a glorious flourish. He gave his brother a flashing grin. "I'll try to follow your advice," he said, "at least the bits I think I'll be able to survive without a broken spine."

Hermione's hand flew up to her mouth, stifling a slightly shocked giggle, and her eyes met Harry's. He was holding his wife in a loose embrace; his Gryffindor tie had gone missing, and the collar of his shirt stood half open. He looked amused, happy and very relaxed, and he winked at her.

"Would you fetch our luggage, love?" her husband said, his gaze mischievous. "The faster you are, the sooner you can show me that legendary house in Brittany."

Bill fished her wand out of the remnants of Molly's enormous wedding cake (where it had landed after Hermione's mishap). He bowed deeply, not even trying to hide his mirth. She took it from him. "_Accio_ luggage!"

Two big trunks came rumbling down the stairs, and George and Charlie dove out of the way just in time. Charlie eyed the bigger suitcase – it was Hermione's – with all signs of mocking disbelief. "Don't tell me that you have books in there! Do you really think you'll find the time for _reading?"_

"Bugger off," Ron told his brother amicably. "Find yourself a wife instead of the next Hungarian Horntail and devil _her _instead." He looked at Hermione, his smile warm and intimate. "Shall we?"

She felt her heartbeat speed up. "I can't wait."

Hermione called the familiar house and garden into her mind, and one second later they whirled away. She kept an iron grip on the handle of her suitcase and still felt his arm, secure and strong, holding her by his side... and then she stumbled forward, right into the garden wall of Cottage Genêt. At the same time Ron's feet hit the ground beside her, and their united luggage crashed against his shin. _"Ouch!" _

"Shsh!" Hermione looked around her, to be certain that the silent side street was completely empty. Another advantage of winter; during July and August, many tourists swarmed the small fishing village, heading for the famous lighthouse or the _Calvaire de Tronoȅn._ But now, on this frosty December evening, no one was to be seen.

She saw her honeymoon house across the bare garden, and she could hear the strong breath of the tide. Any other day she would have rushed over to the wall, to enjoy the familiar, spectacular sight of Audierne Bay and the circling light of _Phare d'Eckmühl_, but now she felt more than a little distracted by the view of her brand new husband. He wheezed along the graveled path, carrying the luggage trunk because – given the Muggle surrounding - she had adamantly barred him from using magic outside. Not to mention the sensation of damp skirts starting to freeze in the icy air – the scenery could wait till tomorrow.

The key was hidden beneath a small rock beside the entrance – as it had been every time in the past fifteen years whenever she had come here with her parents - and when she unlocked the door and stepped into the small vestibule, she was greeted by pleasant warmth and a mouth-watering fragrance. Ron followed her, dropping the suitcases on the tiled floor. He inhaled deeply, and a hopeful smile spread across his face.

"That smells delicious," he said, striding towards the kitchen as of drawn by a strong magnet. Hermione fell behind, peering through the open door into the living room. She caught a glimpse of polished, dark wood, a table laid for two with wine glasses and neatly folded white napkins. She blessed Madame Kerrec, the owner of _Cottage Genêt._ Madame was well past her seventies now, and she had always made sure that a good meal was waiting for the Grangers when they arrived for one of their family holidays in Brittany. That Hermione came here with her husband this time, and amidst of winter to boot, didn't change anything but the number of plates. It was like a soothing constant, and she felt herself relax. _Heaven knew that the thought of this night alone was enough to turn her knees to jelly. _

When she finally reached the kitchen, Ron was leaning over a big pot on the oven; he lifted the lid and appreciatively held his long nose over the cloud of steam.

"Hmmmm... onion soup!" He turned back to her, quickly letting his wand slip out of his sleeve and pointing at her. _"Siccaro!" _

The uncomfortable, wet feeling on her backside vanished immediately; Hermione gave a small sigh of relief, remembering the times when the sight of food would have kept him from noticing anything else. Their eyes met, and suddenly he grinned.

"I know I should be more romantic, love, but I must confess I hardly had anything to eat today. I was too damned nervous. And when I wasn't trying to hide from Mum with her plate of food, I was ducking from Bill and Charlie with their bottle of firewhisky. They said a sip or two would work wonders on my nerves, but if I had drunk every time I came across them, I'd been thoroughly sloshed before I even had the chance to say: 'Yes, I will.' And now I'm terribly hungry."

"Of course you are. And we aren't in a hurry, are we?" She smiled at him, strangely thankful that the inevitable conclusion of this evening could be delayed a little longer. _Coward. _

A pile of _crêpes _was arranged on a huge plate on the kitchen table, accompanied by a glass of pale golden honey, a long, slender bread in a white paper bag and a small, round _Camembert._ A china bowl was waiting for the soup; she handed it over to Ron and watched him filling it. Hermione found a bottle of _Pinot Gris_ in the fridge, and together they carried their dinner into the living room. They sat down and she watched him eat with his usual appetite, while busying herself with a few spoonfuls of the soup and a piece of the crisp bread. She felt a sting of envy; it was so very _Ron_ to shut out the rest of the world and concentrate on the single task of filling his empty stomach. The soup was delicious indeed, made with wine and fine herbs, but she couldn't keep the thoughts from fluttering in her mind like a swarm of anxious birds.

_Would she be able to please him? _

They had been engaged for nearly eight months, but even before the proposal, it had been a surprisingly chaste affair. _Well, not surprising, given the circumstances. _Directly after the war, Ron had concentrated on helping George over the loss of his twin, and then he dived into the Auror training. When they saw each other, it was often in the presence of friends and colleagues. After his proposal, Ron - together with half a dozen Aurors – had vanished for nearly three months to Germany, following an urgent call from the German Ministry of Magic and hunting in the Black Forest what was left from Fenrir Greyback's murderous pack. She and Ron had shared a summer holiday in the Burrow, but there was barely the chance for any intimate moments. The house burst at the seams with friends and family, and Molly's eagle eyes kept them from sneaking away for some privacy. Aside from that Hermione was at home with her parents most of the time when she was not working. After a short period of shock and irritation, they were incredibly glad to have their daughter back – and to finally know again that they actually _had _one. From September to early November 2000, Hermione had lived in her father's house, simply enjoying their renewed closeness and at the same time preparing to ultimately leave her childhood behind.

She was informed about the biological facts, of course, and she knew "what to plug where". She also had read her share of raunchy books; they were as rampant in the Wizard World as they were in Muggle society. Instead of fluttering blouses and dagged skirts, the printed women on the covers from magical publishing houses wore dangerously low-necked witch robes –usually black or flaming red. Unlike their Muggle sisters they did _move_, rubbing their ample curves lasciviously against the wizards who crushed them against their muscular, naked chests. To be caught with one of those "masterpieces" led to endless giggle fits among Hermione's classmates, and after one most embarrassing incident during her fourth year in the Gryffindor dormitory she had punctiliously returned to the studies of schoolbooks and dusty, leather-bound tomes about magic.

Aside from that, the purple prose of these stories had always made her face burn and her stomach flutter. She could well imagine kisses and touches, but she felt absolutely sure that she would never beg Ron with a smoky voice to _"cleave her honey-sweet prune with his quivering, iron wand"._

"Don't worry," Ginny had told her in one of the – very rare – quiet moments last summer. "Making love is as easy as flying on a broom." Talk was cheap – Ginny had been married for nearly a year now, and she was the Quidditch star of the _Holyhead Harpies_. Hermione, however, remembered her own shattering adventures with dragons, hippogriffs and thestrals all too well, and thus heartily despised flying on _anything_... which made that analogy anything but auspicious.

There was the evening when Ron had told her about Gryffindor's sword; there they _had_ been alone, and his honest, painful story had moved her very much... She'd held him in her arms, and their kisses – as harmless and tender as they had been in the beginning – fueled a fire in her flesh that nearly made her throw all misgivings and proper intentions into the wind. She still remembered Ron's words back then, breathlessly whispered into her ear while he stopped her fingers from unbuttoning his shirt.

"Sorry, Hermione... I guess I'm an idiot not to use the chance, but I..." He swallowed. "I never thought you would really want _me_ instead of... I never stopped _hoping_, of course, but..." He got up from the sofa in her parents' living room, where they had been sitting for more than two hours, still holding her hands. "I want you, Hermione – Merlin knows how much I want you – but this is simply too... too important for me. I want to do this properly... and now I'll go before I lose my head." His last, fierce kiss sent firebolts through every nerve of her body, and then he was gone.

Scarcely a week later he had given her the ring ---

"Hermione?"

She came back to the present with a start. Ron curiously peered at her over his empty plate; only a finger's breadth of the soup was left in the bowl, the bread was gone – save for a few scattered crumbs – and the Camembert had vanished without a trace. She felt laughter bubble up in her chest. "You were hungry indeed!"

"Well, I told you!" He looked down on his plate again, the corners of his mouth curling to a smile. "And do you know what I'd like to do now?"

"What?"

"You know this house much better than I do. Would you mind showing me the rest?"

They carried the empty plates and glasses back into the kitchen, and Hermione cast a cleaning spell. Washing the dishes would have bought her some more time, but the brightest witch of her age couldn't possibly be expected to do the washing-up Muggle style, could she? _Ron would laugh at her, or – much worse – realize what a chicken she was. _

She showed him the garden room where the guests had a spectacular view of the sea and the lighthouse. Right now it was too dark to see anything, and Hermione immediately decided that they should have their breakfast tomorrow morning in there. They walked upstairs, the trunks sailing in their wake, and there was the small bedroom where Hermione had spent her nights during holidays. The bed was the same; she recognized the faded, round rug with the pattern of roses, the small lamp on the nightstand with the silken lampshade and even the porcelain clock on the mantelpiece.

The next door led to the master bedroom.

It was warm and cozy, flames flickering behind a beautiful, old fireplace screen. The bed looked like an imposant ship, moored against the wall, with masts of dark, shining wood and sails of lavender-colored damask. Hermione felt Ron's gentle touch against her back when she walked inside, and she heard the luggage settle on the floorboards with a soft thump. She turned to her husband and watched him close the door. Then they stood eye to eye and his hands closed around her fingers, warm and confident. With a shiver she realized that she was looking forward to feeling those hands on her whole body.

"Ron..."

The silence stretched and deepened; Ron still held her hands, but he didn't move. His eyes were fixed on her, but they seemed to stare at something in the distance.

"Ron? I'd really like to have a penny for your thoughts."

"Oh..." He shook his head, as if resurfacing from deep water. "I was thinking of Viktor Krum."

"Of _who?"_ Hermione sputtered. She was more than a little taken aback. "This is our wedding night, we are standing in our bedroom, and you are thinking about... _Quidditch?"_

"No." He gave her a lopsided grin. "Not about Quidditch. Only about Viktor."

"But... but _why?" _

He looked at her, his eyes dark in the dim, flickering light of the candles. "You know, Ginny said... in her fifth year, when I got mad about her because of all that snogging and fumbling with Dean Thomas, she said..."

Hermione snorted audibly. "Let me guess. You counted two and two, and the result was _five_, right?"

He had enough modesty to blush. "Look... I know I've acted like a complete idiot back then, but I honestly thought..."

"You thought I got laid while fraternizing with the enemy," Hermione stated, feeling the irresistible urge to giggle.

"Something of that sort." He bowed his head, his lips trembling upwards. "Which would mean that at least one of us has some practical experience."

She stared at him, her mouth falling open. "Wait a moment... do you really want to make me believe that you have _not_... you and Lavender actually did _never..."_

"Never ever ." Ron raised his chin, and his grin was a mixture of embarrassment and irony. "You're talking to a twenty-year old, male virgin."

Now Hermione laughed in earnest, and the sound of her unchecked mirth cleared the air.

"Same here," she replied, "only that I'm twenty-one and decidedly _not_ male."

"And so my dreams of an experienced older woman are flying out of the window," Ron joked. His thumbs gently caressed her knuckles. "Are you... are you nervous?"

"Nervous as hell," she confessed, and now they were _both_ laughing.

"Perhaps you feel a bit better as soon as we've got you out of that fluttering nightmare?" Ron suggested.

"Oh, it's no nightmare," Hermione protested, "or it _wasn't_, not until I sat down in that silly puddle."

He walked around her and patiently began to unlace the complicated fastenings of the embroidered corsage. She heard him chuckle under his breath.

"Wedding dresses are crazy," he stated. "So much effort to lash something up that's only meant to be ripped off as soon as possible..." She felt him warm and solid behind her back; his big hands were surprisingly nimble. From time to time his fingertips grazed the thin silken chemise beyond the stiff fabric, causing small shivers to run down her spine.

Finally the corsage was open, and Hermione stripped the long, lacy sleeves down over her arms. The ample skirt of the dress fell down to the floor, several layers of satin and organza crumpling around her ankles. Now she only wore the chemise and her knickers, and a tiny sting of fear went right into her stomach when she finally turned around to her husband.

He watched her, his freckled face strangely blank. She felt anxious and vulnerable. _This is Ron_, she sternly reminded herself. _What's the matter, you silly cow? This is Ron!_

Suddenly he smiled, and for a short, dizzying moment she saw not only the man she'd just married but also the clumsy, eager boy from their First Year... the Second Year student whose eyes shone with joy when she returned to the Great Hall, released from the Basilisk's curse, and who awkwardly patted her shoulder while Harry held her in a close embrace... Ron in their Third Year, lying on the shabby bed in the Shrieking Shack, pale as chalk, grimacing with pain... The faces seemed to blur, rounded cheeks morphing into clearly defined features, the body of a boy growing to the tall, sturdy figure of the adult who stood in front of her.

When he spoke, his voice was soft, tinged with gentle humor; it seemed as if he could read her thoughts. "It's only me, Hermione. No need to be afraid."

She had no idea where his sudden certitude came from, but she was incredibly thankful for it, and for the moment more than willing to grant him the lead. With a fast movement he pulled the long, dark blue wizard robe over his head. He wore black breeches and a white shirt underneath, and he quickly rid himself of both. A moment later he was completely naked, and she gazed at him in wonder – his broad shoulders and strong arms, covered with fine, red golden hair, the smooth planes of his chest and belly, the soft patch of copper curls around his manhood, and the slim hips over long legs. The gawkiness of the former years was gone without a trace.

"You are... you are beautiful," she whispered.

"Oh. Er... thank you." He took a step forward and reached out, carefully stripping the thin spaghetti straps down over her shoulders, and his fingers found the hem of her chemise. She lifted her arms, head sinking back, and the flimsy garment sailed to the floor. He pulled her close, and Hermione's heartbeat stumbled when her bare breasts met his skin.

"You are beautiful, too," he murmured into her hair. "But do you have any idea how incredibly wonderful you _feel?" _

"N...no." She buried her face against his chest, inhaling deeply. _He smelled so good. _

They stood that way for what felt like a small eternity, swaying gently, his hands drawing firm, stroking circles all over her back, her fingers buried in his hair. She thought of the broad four-poster bed behind them, shivering with anticipation, and at the same time she simply didn't want to let go.

Again his voice echoed her thoughts. "You know, I love holding you, but would you mind if we give this comfy bed behind you a chance?"

She looked up at him, biting her lip. "No, I don't. As long as you don't laugh at me if I act like a lump."

"I won't." he promised earnestly.

She walked slowly backwards until she felt the rim of the mattress bump against the hollow of her knees. He followed her movement; together they sank down on fresh sheets and blankets and their lips met in a fierce, awkward kiss, all open mouth, clicking teeth and shuddering breath.

He was still the one setting the pace in this, and she felt his fingers roaming over her skin, seeking an unexplored path across neck and shoulders, returning to her cheeks and chin and stroking down again, finally closing around her breasts. For a moment they remained completely still. Hermione realized that he'd held his breath all the time, for now it came out in a tremulous hiss while the big hands she loved continued to caress smooth skin and gentle swell and finally began to tease the rosy tips. His enthusiasm was enough compensation for his missing experience, and she wouldn't have been of great help anyway; she dug her fingers into linen and wool, gasping for air when suddenly a hot mouth continued what his hands had begun. _More_, she thought, arching into his touch, her legs instinctively falling open when she felt the pressure of his hardness on her hip. _We're nearly there, we're nearly..._

… Ron jerked back, his whole body growing rigid. He gave a strangled moan and turned away from her, shoulders convulsively rising and falling.

She sat up, head spinning. "What -?"

He didn't answer at first – and suddenly Hermione understood. Hesitantly she touched his arm. He didn't pull it away, but the muscles under the pale skin were tense as ropes.

"See?" he murmured bitterly. "In the end I am the lump, not you."

Her mind was racing; it proved to be increasingly difficult to think clearly while her whole body was aching for his ministrations. But she had to deal with this immediately. _Let me say the right thing now. Please. _

"But this isn't the end, we've only just begun," she finally whispered, her brow leaning against his shoulder. "And so far it was _wonderful._ Do you hear me?"She kissed his skin, mouth open, the taste of salt on her tongue. "Don't stop," she told him. "Don't you _dare_ stop!"

His shoulders relaxed a a little and he turned back, right into her embrace. She held him, her next kiss giving all the comfort and reassurance she was able to offer. He sighed into her mouth and stroked her hair, but it was clear that he'd lost a good part of his spirit. She took his hand and pressed it against her belly.

"Touch me," she breathed into his ear, her teeth gently scraping the sensitive skin of the earlobe. "Touch me, love... _touch me everywhere." _

He followed a straight line from the underside of her breasts to the tiny deepening of her navel, and he seemed to draw strength from her deep sigh. Now he ventured further, palm gliding along the soft curve of her hip; he gave a surprised, little laugh when he registered that she still wore her knickers. He stripped them down her legs and stretched beside her again, his breath fast and unsteady. She felt that he was still too embarrassed to proceed with the former courage, and suddenly the last remnants of her own timidity were gone, replaced by an overwhelming desire. She boldly took charge and guided his hand to the place where she wanted it most. His fingertips wandered across frizzy hair and finally touched damp skin. _Yessss_... she thought. _Oh yesss, there_... No clever book, no smoky novel written by Muggle or wizard, had given her a mere hint of what _this_ would feel like.

Ron raised his head, watching her with rapt fascination while he continued to stroke and caress, slowly learning what made her squirm and gasp and buck up into his touch. Then he found the firm nub that was hidden beneath the soft folds, and Hermione moaned aloud; every fiber of her flesh was trembling with surprise.

Her eyes flew open; now his face was very close, eyes dark with renewed hunger. She couldn't speak, she could only _want_ and _crave_ and needneed_need_... and so she pulled him atop of her. His body followed her desperate plea willingly and with astonishing grace.

There was no fumbling anymore, no painful or embarrassing unhandiness. He slid inside without further hesitation, his strong momentum made so easy by her own arousal that Hermione barely felt any pain. They rocked against each other, rhythm adjusting, sharing this ancient, feral dance for what felt like a delicious eternity until finally Hermione clung to his shoulders and tossed her head back and gave a guttural scream while the world around her exploded in crimson sparks. From very far away, she heard Ron's voice, uttering her name in a breathless, shuddering whisper. She felt the heat of his release spreading deep within her, and then he buried his face against her neck and they both lay still.

vvvvv

"That," Hermione Weasley's husband said, "was absolutely _unbelievable."_

She opened heavy-lidded eyes and found Ron lying beside her, his hand gently stroking down her naked spine. He looked tousled and thoroughly satisfied, and at least as dazed as she felt.

_"You _were unbelievable," Hermione murmured, leaning in and pressing a kiss to the spot where his neck merged into the shoulder. Suddenly a thought struck her, and she peered curiously up to him. "Did you learn anything of... what you did... from a book?"

He took a heavy lock of her hair between his fingers, twisting it to a shining cord. "Ah... well, you can laugh at me, of course..."

_"Ron!"_

He cocked an eyebrow at her. „You know, for some reason I didn't want to go to _Flourish & Blotts_. But there's a bookshop on Charing Cross Road – outside in the Muggle part of London, near the _Leaky Cauldron_. I went there, and I did some research."

"Research?" Hermione remembered Fleur's remark, anda wave of laugter spread inside of her like sparkling wine. "How to... _'lisser sa femme'?"_

"How to – WHAT?"

_"'Lisser sa femme'"_, she repeated, snickering madly. "That's French for 'to lay your wife'."

"Blimey!" Ron shook his head. "But, to answer your question... yes, I looked for books about exactly... er... that."

He blushed.

"I just wanted to do it right. And I must say, some of the books I found there were really helpful. And incredibly detailed."

"Brilliant, love." Hermione slipped down on the mattress, resting her chin on his stomach... and snickering again when a loud growl made his belly vibrate. "You can't be hungry again... or can you? You made short work of an entire Camembert, most of the bread and half the pot of onion soup in the kitchen, just an hour ago!"

"And I needed the strength, didn't I?" He grinned at her. "Okay, we'll keep the rest of the soup for tomorrow. But there are still those pancakes, aren't they, and I think I saw a glass of honey somewhere..."

"Whin honey," Hermione agreed. "My mother's favorite. She always used to buy it from one of the farm wives in St. Guenolé when we came here."

Ron climbed down from the bed. He walked to the door, allowing her a generous, pleasant view of his naked backside. She cleared her throat. "Did you perchance bring any of the guidebooks from that shop with you?"

"Why?" He looked back at her, and slowly a smile spread on his face. "Oh. - Do you know what? I'll fetch our afters, and then I'll search the trunk for the book; it's hidden somewhere between my socks. And believe it or not, but there is a whole page about what you can do with honey. With loads of _pictures." _

He vanished in the hallway, and Hermione's delighted laughter followed him into the kitchen.

**The End**


End file.
